


born a lion

by fishcola



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sexual Assault, also like literal sexual assault let me be clear, cyberbullying and slurs, mild and casual homophobia, more like fuck this world/let's fuck, not really hurt/comfort, pretty much just that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: five times brian and pat go out for drinkseverybody wants a piece of some easy enterprise / can't this world cut your face and carry the news that you've got a gift to be given? / cut it out cut your loss, you don't dream you fantasize / and this is how we measure the cost of enjoying the pain of 21 year of good living





	born a lion

**Author's Note:**

> sorry no chessboxing update this monday, kids. instead, i offer you this angsty piece from the annals of fish's unbetad-shit-that-i-wrote-in-a-weird-passion.
> 
> standard RPF disclaimers apply. it's more about me than about Them. if you find yourself in here metaphorically, bless, comment at me. if you find yourself in here literally, flee wretched mortals.
> 
> in particular: this fic will be triggering in a very real way to people who have (also) experienced mundane sexual assault. skip it if it's not cathartic to you.

#  **1.**

 

Brian is always confident and cheerful when they stream together. He’s not like Pat. 

He doesn’t get flustered, tongue-tied looking for a joke. He doesn’t get humiliated with his singing voice, frozen in terror so that he forgets how to make his fingers find chords. He doesn’t grimace. Or whine. Or bitch. He doesn’t change the rules halfway through the game, when he’s fucking sick of this shit. Brian doesn’t cry uncle. 

Until he does. 

It’s right at the end of a stream. They’ve been doing this, oh, more than a month now, and Brian’s really hitting his groove. He’s been good up until now— _great_ , even—swapping jokes as swiftly as Pat can hit an intro graphic button, and gamely doing bad accents every time he fails a Mario speedrun. His last impression ( _Icelandic man gets into the wrong Uber_ ) took an absurdist turn, and Pat still has to push the thoughts away to avoid being overcome with laughs at the illustrative hip wiggle. 

Brian’s scrolling chat for a good punishment accent, grinning a shit-eating grin, when—

—his face falls. Pat would have dismissed it, but Brian doesn’t shake it off. “Um, ok, we’re going to take this one—robot in job interview—and if it’s ok, I’m gonna…uh…hop out and…you can…”

“Okay. I got it, if you need—” Pat doesn’t know what to offer, exactly.

“Great,” Brian says and his voice is weird. “Um. Then maybe try some solo segs if you feel like it.”

And he flees, getting up from the couch and out of the room in record time. Pat carries the stream for a while, goofing with the chat, but in the back of his mind he wonders... 

but soon Brian’s back, and he’s fine, and they finish the stream like nothing happened, and Pat forgets about it. 

  
  
  
  


A day later, Pat’s alone in his office sorting through the video to make the highlight reel, when he hits that moment again. Brian’s face goes slack, and Pat hits pause. 

He scrolls up in the chat. 

 

> **wave43:** can pat do an scottish accent  
>  **wave43:** or will it just be a pirate again xD **  
> ****tygger:** do a tara accent **  
> ****docbrowN:** robot in a job interview **  
> ****kibbt48k9:** it makes me sick to see this little twink thirsting so hard for cck evry week **  
> ****aLslayer:** piss constable reprise  
>  **kibbt48k9:** no1 wants to watch u flirt fg go gargle cm in an alley  
>  **drsf:** WTF

Pat’s fingers absently click, highlight the text a few times, as he rereads. It’s not so unusual, insults, threats. People who find their way to into your little corner of the internet, just to make sure they have a chance to shit on you.  Polygon gets attention on the internet, and with attention comes…that. 

Brian’s new, but not that new. He needs to learn to shake it off, like all of them have. He’ll get used to it. 

Pat’s face burns as he reads it through again. Something angry, protective blossoms in his stomach. Brian shouldn’t have to get used to it. No one should. But especially not him. Not someone whose face lights up like a Christmas card whenever someone brings cookies to the office. Who remembers everyone’s birthdays, and the name of their cats. Who paints his nails to keep from biting them (it doesn’t work) and owns exactly one pair of what he calls Adult Shoes. 

He slams his fist onto the desk and the laptop rattles. He and Brian are coworkers, but he maybe doesn’t know Brian well enough yet to talk to him about this, and about how much it bothers him, burns him up, in the bottom of his gut. He opens Slack anyway. 

 

> **pat (4:40:04):** hey brian  
>  **pat (4:40:05):** just so you know  
>  **pat (4:40:06):** i banned that asshole on twitch  
>  **bdg (4:40:10):** huh what asshole  
>  **pat (4:40:14):** from the stream  
>  **bdg (4:41:01):** oh  
>  **bdg (4:41:01):** thx  
>  **pat (4:41:30):** u ok? working?  
>  **bdg (4:41:40):** yup im fine  
>  **bdg (4:41:42):** this scripts a pain  
>  **bdg (4:41:47):** kind of working, kind of done being productive for the day  
>  **pat (4:42:52):** in that case  
>  **pat (4:42:53):** wanna go get a beer?  
>  **pat (4:42:55):** i need an excuse to get out of this rathole  
>  **bdg (4:44:02):** thatd be great  
>  **bdg (4:44:03):** gimme 5 mins

  
  
  


They choose a place down the street—it’s overly hip, but Brian says he drinks Belgians and it’s the only place Pat knows of that has more than one on tap—and elbow their way in at the bar. 

“They have lambic!” Brian exclaims, squinting over the menu card. “I’m so getting that.” 

“I don’t... even know what that is,” Pat admits. 

“Just fruity beer,” Brian smiles. The middle-aged bartender snorts, almost imperceptibly. Pat’s ears redden—the bar’s not crowded, but there’s enough people it’s hard to tell if she’s laughing at something unrelated or at his lack of education about the subtleties of European brewing. 

He orders a random IPA—tries not to rush it in embarrassment—but she doesn’t seem like she’s paying him much mind, really. Bored. Eyes on the football game playing on the corner screen. 

“And for you, smalls? Something _fruity_?”

Pat frowns a little at her tone. It’s vaguely amused, and he can’t figure out from what. She’s maybe a decade Pat’s senior, sure, but she didn’t call _him_ smalls. 

He glances over. Brian’s shoulders have—shrunk, almost imperceptibly, like he’s deflated just a touch. Then there’s a shake. A barely noticeable but certainly intentional lengthening. He leans over the bar and he smiles bright. “A raspberry lambic, please, ma’am.” 

“Gonna need to see some ID, sugar,” she says, and he hands it over. It was already ready, in his palm. _God_ , Pat remembers those days. She looks at it for a moment, looks him in the face, as if she’s really checking. Hands it back. “So a Billswitch and a lambic. One tab or two?” 

“Two,” Brian says, quick and firm, which kinda surprises Pat, but all right.

“Uh-huh,” she says, and sidles off, quick and bored, to pour their drinks. She’s efficient, if sloppy. Pat doesn’t pay her much mind, as she heads down the bar, because he’s watching the tension crackle in Brian’s fingers. He’s tap-tap-tapping them, on the bar, then flattening his hand and recurling it, subtle but nervously rhythmic. 

“What’s up,” Pat broaches, after a few beats more of silence. 

Brian sips his drink deliberately. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” His shoulders are parallel to the bar, and stiff.

It’s stupid obvious that it’s not nothing, so Pat just dives into it with a hint of snarkiness, because that’s where he lives and breathes. “Who the fuck calls anyone smalls. I haven’t heard that since 1998.”

A laugh, at that. It doesn’t shake loose the tension, but Brian does turn his shoulders, lean in a bit, open up his body language. “Confession, Pat Gill, I haven’t even seen the Sandlot. So I don’t know if it’s supposed to be a compliment.”  

“Maybe,” Pat taps his glass, doesn’t really entertain the joke with the proper smile. Something about her tone just felt… off. Brian had to have felt it too, right? Or maybe his residual embarrassment about not knowing basic beer facts just leaked over. “Just strange. That she’d be so… just. Weird. Who calls anyone sugar outside of Louisiana.” 

Brian really does lean over conspiratorially then, a mild smile. “She thinks I’m gay, Pat.” His hand tugs at his shirt collar, as if there’s something about the short-sleeved button-up that makes this a reasonable conclusion. As if there’s something about this statement that makes the exchange less inscrutible. 

Pat blinks. He feels like he’s missed a step or two, in the conversation. “Huh?”

“Yeah, I know, but it shakes the pet names out of people sometimes. Maybe she’s got a gay nephew who she thinks is cute. Or maybe she thinks lambic is for sissies. Or maybe she just thinks I’m filth and she’s yankin’ my chain. But yeah. Um. That’s why.” 

“This is New York City,” Pat says, stupidly, because his heart caught a little oddly on the word _filth_.

Brian’s smile is very balanced, and in Pat’s estimation, at least 50% fake. “Yup. I get it more often in Balty, gotta say.” 

“Get what,” Pat feels the condensation on his glass against his fingers. He hasn’t drank any yet, not really. 

A little huff, an eyebrow raise, a flick of the hand. “That stuff. I dunno. Never mind. Maybe I’m wrong. It’s not important. Let’s talk about something else.” 

Pat can’t quite let it go, though. He takes a long drink, while Brian starts up a conversation about board games that he can contribute to in dribs and drabs. Meanwhile, he thinks about what _stuff_ Brian’s referring to. It’s not like Pat wasn’t bullied in high school. It’s not like he’s never worried about what a stranger thought of him. It’s not like he didn’t get a little guff, back home in Maine, when he first let his hair grow long. 

But then he moved to Manhattan, and stopped shaving real regular, and put on a few pounds and a half-dozen years, and all that stuff is kinda a lifetime away. Worrying about what other people think he should look like. Worrying about whether if he doesn’t look that way, they might give him a piece of their mind. Worrying about whether the piece of their mind is gonna come in the form of a wrinkled nose or a shitty word or a looming fist.

“Pat?” Brian says, softly, and touches his arm.

“Sorry,” Pat says, reflexively, when he realizes he’s gone quiet too long and Brian isn’t expounding anymore on some Japanese cooperative card game. “Spaced.” 

“It’s ‘kay,” Brian smiles. “I should probably get going, anyway. Gotta wake up early tomorrow to take Jonah to the airport.” 

“Lucky you,” Pat murmurs, and drains his drink. He feels angry at himself, that he let himself get distracted. That Brian’s leaving because he got distracted. That he didn’t pick up on her tone, when she first said it.

They close out their tabs without incident, except that the bartender says _here you go, sugar_ again when she hands Brian his check. 

Brian smiles and says thank you and tips twenty percent, Pat notices. Brian notices him noticing. 

“I’m gonna choose to believe she just thinks I’m cute,” he smiles, and it’s closer to real, this smile. “Can’t hardly blame her for that, can you?” 

“No,” Pat agrees, because his mind is elsewhere. “She’s got eyes.” 

Brian’s face cracks open, an unexpected smile, bright and shining. Pat’s almost wrong-footed by it, just enjoys it for a half-second, watching the tension drop from the kid’s shoulders, before he remembers his own sentence and dips his chin, twists his mouth in embarrassment.

The kid’s touching his arm, though. “Thanks for cheering me up, Pat. It was… really nice.” 

“Anytime,” Pat says to Brian’s fingers, before they let go.   

 

#  **2.**

 

Brian’s been a little buzzy all day. They shot Unraveled first thing in the morning, meaning he’d gone from immaculate in a three-piece grey suit to full-on disheveled by lunchtime. Pat wonders if he is imagining it, if Brian seems a little off, or if he just tapped into that _the-ship-is-sinking-and-I-am-FINE_ Unraveled energy a little too well to shake. 

“Wanna get ready for the stream?” Pat asks, thirty minutes before.

“Ye—oh, fuck. I forgot. Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll be right there.”

“No worries,” Pat says, surprised. “If you got a conflict we can always cancel—I can just tweet out a quick excuse and we’ll make it Friday instead…?”

Brian looks a little ill, but says “No, no conflicts. Just don’t know where my mind’s at. I’ll be right there.”

The stream goes as planned. They’re not evenly matched at Tetris—not even close—but Brian’s good enough at Puyo that it balances out mostly. And if Brian ends up doing more pushups than Pat, well, he takes it with good humor like always. 

It’s in the wrapup, this time, that it happens. 

Brian’s looking through the chat to see who’s been crowned the winner of _best gun show_ with their post-work-out arms, when his expression freezes in place. 

Pat’s looking at Brian, for once—not at the weird scroll of spectators or the levels or the screen, at all the producer shit—so he sees everything. The way Brian’s eyes flit across, reading reading reading stop. The way his eyes widen, shocked, confusedscared _panicked_ and then shut down. The way his mouth tightens, and his mind drops back into some memory or distant thought, and then his gaze flicks to the door.

“You all right?” Pat asks, out loud, because fuck the stream, fuck producing, fuck _everything_. He needs to know why Brian looks like that, like he’s contemplating escape. 

“F-fine!” 

It is immediately, painfully apparent that Brian is not fine—that he’s hyperventilating, even—and Pat cuts the stream off with only the vaguest attempt at the normal pleasantries. It takes a few seconds to get the video off and shove the mics out of the way, so when he turns around again Brian has his head in his hands and Pat is afraid that he might be openly weeping.  

“Bri, are you ok? What happened?”

“Nothing!” Brian says, and his voice is so far out into panicked that it’s honing in on hysterical. “Just tired! S-sorry for—”

He can’t finish the thought.

“It’s not nothing. Dude, you’re _shaking_ —what’s going on—”

Brian cuts him off by standing, and though he’s so unsteady he looks vaguely drunk he makes it to the door in two steps. “Sorry just have to—” and he doesn’t finish that thought either, leaving Pat in the recording room. 

He stands.  

Then he hesitates. Grabs the laptop. Checks chat. 

The gun show votes are mundane, though. A few salacious, many misspelled, but nothing bad. Even if there had been, Brian has gotten better about shaking stuff off—he’s even better at it than Pat, these days. He gets it worse.

He goes to find Brian. The office is quiet and still, except for a sound from the bathroom. Pat tramples his way in without hesitation.

Brian is in a stall, making choked hitching sounds like one does when they’re crying, or panicking, or catching breath unsteadily just after vomiting. It’s weird, and _bad_ , and it makes something change in Pat’s stomach. Some new worry secures itself there, huge, uncontrolled, dwarfing his previous worries in its sheer scale. 

“Brian. What the _fuck_. Are you ok?”

His voice comes out sloppy-stern instead of friendly-caring. _I am the worst at this_ drifts in his mind. 

“Yes! Fine!” Brian sobs, high-pitched. “Just sick!”

“Bullshit. Something happened. What the fuck did you see in the chat?” 

The choking, again, in desperation. “ _Please_ , Pat—”

Pat rests a forearm against the bathroom door, corrals his tone. “Look, Bri, it’s fine. I can give you a second. Many seconds, even. Just—I’ll be out near my desk, okay? When you’re ready.”

“Kay,” Brian assents, almost in a whisper, and Pat takes that as a dismissal. 

  
  
  


Brian eventually does emerge, looking pale, like he’s seen a ghost and maybe talked to it, and then spent the rest of the time splashing water on his face. 

“I need a drink before I can talk about this,” Brian says, and it’s a plea more than a statement. 

Pat’s never seen anyone who looks less able to handle a drink right now. “Okay. Let’s go get one.”

They end up in a bar—Pat chooses—that’s hip and dark, serving French 76’s surrounded by cheap old copies of Moby Dick and a battered pool table that no one probably uses. Pat orders a gin drink, and Brian one with vodka, which surprises Pat, because he’s never seen Brian drink anything stronger than beer. 

Pat doesn’t push yet. He makes a joke about the bookshelves and asks if Brian wants anything to eat. 

“Sure,” Brian says tonelessly, and makes no move to look at the menu or choose anything. Pat orders edamame and lets Brian just stare and scrunch up his napkin until it comes. 

Once their hands are occupied, and the first drink is half-gone, Brian starts talking.

“Something happened this morning.”

“Yeah? At work?”

“Before. On the subway.”

Pat blinks and his stomach flips over. “What?”

“Yknow.” Brian laughs. “The kind of thing that happens to people like me on subways sometimes. If I’m—not paying attention.”

“I don’t know what that means, Brian.”

The glance that Brian gives him is significant, in some way. “Yeah, fair. Okay. You probably don’t. I’m not making a lot of sense right now.” He drinks, draining his cup. 

“You’re fine.” 

Brian flags down the waiter, which is unusual in itself, and orders another. “Yeah. So I dunno. It’s stupid. Some guy freaked me out on the subway, and then I—remembered it. And freaked myself out again like an idiot. So sorry for dragging you out to like—calm my nerves.”

“How’d the guy freak you out?”

“Um.” Brian closed his eyes. “Just called me a fag, is all. It happens. Pink nails, you know.” 

“Did he touch you?” Pat guesses, and it’s a complete and total shot in the dark, but Brian’s so freaked out, that he just _has_ to. He knows instantly he’s right. Brian’s face contorts, and it matches the twist in Pat’s gut. 

“Not my…um. Front. No.” 

“He groped your ass.” 

“Yeah.” Brian’s drink comes, possibly at the worst moment in the history of drink appearances. Pat outright scowls at the waiter, who doesn’t deserve it, but who also doesn’t care. 

Pat doesn’t say anything as Brian sips, just inviting him to go on. 

“Yeah. Um. It was a little crowded and he groped me and it _wasn’t_ an accident.” 

“That’s—awful” Pat says. All the words seem wrong. He hates himself, that he can’t figure out how to say what he wants to in the tone that would convey its proper strength, which would probably be a yell, come to think of it. He hates himself for the next sentence, too, which comes out inelegant: “What’d you do?”

“Froze like a stupid fucking rabbit. And then like, unfroze enough to—jump and—say _hey_ _what the fuck—_ and move away—but—”

“But?” 

“It was crowded. I couldn’t—without shoving—and he—”

Pat could feel it, the grope, the panic, the rushed though of _is-this-really-happening_ , the quick assessment of exit strategies, the press of other people against you, the feeling trapped. 

“—he said _are you coming on to me, faggot?_ —and like, uh, grabbed my collar—”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Pat’s hand involuntarily reaches out and grabs Brian’s arm, which is putting his drink down. He causes a healthy dollar’s worth of it to spill on the sticky table. “What the hell. Did anyone--”

Brian barrels on. “—and um. Spit on my face? Which kind of freaked me out.”

“ _Je-zus_ motherfucking Christ, Brian” Pat lets his hand tighten on Brian’s wrist. “That’s—how could—how the _fuck_ did you even come to work today.”

Brian laughs a little spidery laugh of panic. “I shook it off. It—was—it sucked but—yknow. Not actually dangerous. I shoved away from him. People were between us. I um. Got off at the next stop just—to get on a different—different car. It happens sometimes.”

“That should never fucking happen,” Pat hears his voice rasp. He’s angry. “Anyone would freak out if someone fucking gropes them and spits on them. How the hell could that _happen_.”

“It wasn’t that big a thing,” Brian says, in a voice that Pat doesn’t want to think about too deeply. _Pink nails, you know._ How often— “But yeah. So. I got reminded. In the chat, and…”

Pat’s blood, which was already pumping in rage, has to quiet a bit before he can even listen, before he can even remember this conversation started with Brian seeing something in chat. “Right.” 

“Someone said…when they were voting on our arms…”

“What?”

“ _I vote for Pats,_ ” Brian recites. “ _At least his don’t have spit on them._ And I know it’s like, not related. It’s ‘cause I like. Yknow. Kissed my arms and like, um, licked them. ‘Cause I’m gross and weird. But it just made me think of—for a second—”

He understands why Brian had to go throw up. He thinks maybe he will also have to go throw up. 

 “Um. Pat you’re—you’re squeezing pretty hard—”

“Sorry.” Pat says quickly, and lets go.

“Thanks,” says Brian, flashing a shaky smile. “The vodka is helping. Just, uh, let’s talk about work or something. Or movies. Or…anything.”

Pat acquiesces to talking about the relative merits of pokemon games, but his brain hovers above the conversation a little bit. Brian is getting close to the point where Pat is going to tactfully suggest he get a taxi. The younger man turns, though, and his face is drunk and open and he’s clearly just decided something.

“Can I crash on your couch, Pat Gill? I’m—I’m gonna be too hungover tomorrow to deal with Laura waking up at seven am. Can I just—come over and—we’ll play smash and—just hang?”

“Of course,” Pat says. 

  
  
  
  
  


It’s all good, later, when they’re playing smash late into the night, and throwing ideas back and forth for bits, and just being fucking normal. 

When Brian finally can’t keep his eyes open anymore, Pat grabs him a pile of blankets and a clean pillow. 

“Thanks, man,” Brian says as he collapses into it. “For letting me stay. And for um. Covering on the stream. And uh—listening to my bullshit.” 

“It’s not bullshit,” says Pat seriously, putting down the towel he just got out. “Brian. It’s important. You got fucking _assaulted_ this morning, it’s fine if you need to take a minute to process.”

“I’m processed,” Brian says sleepily, as he takes his glasses off. “Thanks to you.” 

Pat should just let the conversation end there, but there’s that twinge in his heart—maybe it’s the beers, or the light, or just seeing Brian look so tired and sheepish and small—or maybe it’s something else, some less altruistic impulse—that makes him sit down on the arm of the couch, momentarily, right next to Brian’s head. 

“I’m glad you told me, Brian. Please, tell me when this shit happens. You have to tell someone.”

“Mmkay,” Brian mumbles. 

Pat stares at him, his soft curls, his hands clutching the blankets, and waits until his breathing evens out. 

“Sorry that I don’t ever know what to say,” Pat whispers to Brian, who is now asleep. 

  
  
  
  


 

#  **3.**

 

“ _Receipts_ , Pat.” Brian rubs his eyes, hard. “They’ll want receipts. I got nothing.”

“It’s not your job to figure that shit out,” Pat growls, and it’s a little too loud for where they are. It’s a different bar, this time. Sparse. Exposed industrial ceiling. Long beer list. Group of giggling twenty-somethings playing darts, badly, off to one side. “Leave that to the cops.”

Brian brushes a hand through his hair, drunk and uncoordinated. “They need something to work with. There’s no point. I didn’t even fucking _look_ at the guy until—” He stops, then makes a face, and pushes through “—until he was shoving his tongue down my throat.” 

Pat breathes out slowly, through his nose. He’s working on not being angry when Brian says things like that. On not swearing. Or punching walls. Or doing anything else that makes Brian flinch. He’s doing better than he was a few minutes ago. “Well. You know when and where, and you have a basic description. That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Brian says limply. “Yeah. Let me tell you how that’s gonna go.”

Pat watches as Brian twists his own hair painfully hard. 

“ _Okay, sir, so you were just sitting alone on the train, minding your own business?_ Um, no, actually. I mean, I was, but some guy came on and I scooted over so he could sit next to me, and he started to talk to me. _Did you tell him to leave you alone?_ No, I was being friendly, I thought. Just—chatting. Making small talk. Until he like, grabbed my face and started to kiss me. _Could he have thought you were flirting with him?_ I mean—I wasn’t trying to, but— _What were you wearing?_ ”

“Stop it,” Pat says. “They’re not going to say that. It’s not your fucking _fault_ , Brian.”

Brian’s eyes are closed now, and he’s well and thoroughly wasted. “I know.”

Pat sips his beer and lets out another long nose breath. Brian’s eyelids are paper-thin. His skin is pale, especially today—they weren’t shooting any video so he didn’t wear any makeup. 

It’s hard to look at his face in this conversation without looking at his lips, without imagining a tongue suddenly forced between them. Pat’s had this thought before, to be honest. But it’s never made his stomach lurch with anger and self-loathing quite as hard as right this moment. 

“You’re not taking the subway home tonight,” Pat declares. 

“Stop it.” says Brian, sounding like an overtired kid who’s about to cry. 

“You’re fucking _crazy_ if you think I’m letting you do that.” 

“Pat—I’m f-fine.” His voice hitches a little bit; hesitates. Because he’s lying, Pat thinks. Because it’s not fine. 

“You can come to my place, Brian, or I’ll come to yours—” 

“You don’t have to do this—”

“I don’t. But you’re not going home alone tonight, that’s for fucking _certain_. Deal with it.”

Pat is just registering the fact that his voice is a little louder than it might otherwise be—he’s worked up, for sure, and a touch drunk himself—when someone else sidles into the booth.

“Brian!” says the woman, a small, square-jawed girl with glasses and a loud maroon shirt. She touches Brian’s arm and says “It’s been so long! How are you doing?”

Brian flinches so hard it makes Pat wince, and seems tongue-tied. There’s no hint of recognition. 

“We’re kinda busy here,” Pat say, and his voice is so gruff out of anxiety and paranoia that it comes out nearly a growl. “Sorry.” (He’s not.)

Brian is shaking, but the girl doesn’t let his shoulder go. “Oh of _course_! I shoulda known. Let me just ask Brian a question real quick…” She leans over, and whispers something in Brian’s ear, something that makes his face contort in a way that doesn’t make sense. Pat gives up on niceties. 

“Do you fucking _know_ this girl, Brian?” He’s loud, but he doesn’t care. 

“Um—” Brian hesitates before his expression smooths, like when he’s doing a bit. “Yeah, yeah. Calm down, Pat. It’s fine. Um, sorry, Tracey, just, uh, took a minute for me to recognize you. I just had kinda a shitty day, that’s all. Gonna go home and it’ll be fine. _Really_.” 

“I’ll leave you two be, then,” she says, smiling too broadly, scribbling something on a piece of paper. “But here’s my new number. Give me a call anytime. You wanna hang out, you need a third wheel, hit me up.”

Pat just glares as Brian detaches Tracey from his arm politely and sends her off. She flits away, into the periphery of the bar, but still visible. 

“What the fuck was that,” Pat hisses, at the same time Brian grabs his arm hard and says, “Keep your voice down, Pat Gill.”

“Wha…?”

“Fine, I’ll come to your place. Let’s just—get out of here. _Please_. I’ll explain later.”

Pat can’t wait, though, and asks as soon as they thread their way out onto the dark sidewalk.

“There’s absolutely no way you know who that bitch was, Brian,” says Pat. “Are you ok? What did she say to you? If she was fucking fishing for an autograph—”

Brian moans, and laughs, rubbing his face with a hand. “No, no, Pat. It’s not like that. She’s one of the good ones. Um, I didn’t know her but—well, here.”

He hands Pat the paper, which has a phone number scrawled on it, along with a short message—CALL OR TEXT IF YOU ARE IN DANGER. OR WANT TO JUST CHAT.

Pat squints at it in the dark, and is confused for a moment, looks to Brian for an explanation. 

“Pat. I’m _shitfaced_ and I look like hell.”

“So what? That’s none of her fucking business.”

“Pat,” Brian says, and his voice has a tense smile in it. “Think about the context. You were basically shouting at me. _You’re not going home alone._ You’re taller, and angry, and I look blackout drunk and like I want to cry.” 

“Oh,” Pat breathes out suddenly, and he’s relieved and horribly embarrassed all at once. Of course. Of course. It would look like—like—

“She thought I might need help, that’s all. That I was in over my head.”

“What’d she say to you?” Pat says, still keyed up with paranoia and adrenaline, still trying to parse the interaction in his head. “How do you know she wasn’t just—”

Brian rubs his shoulder thoughtfully. “She said _I can make a distraction right now, just give me a thumbs up and I’ll get you out of here._ ” 

Pat brushes his hand through his hair, exhales a long breath. “Fuck. Okay. Um. That makes sense. Sorry—for, uh. For raising my voice. And um. Scaring bystanders.” 

“It was fine,” Brian gives a breathless laugh. “Just, um. Weird. She startled me. But it’s nice to know that someone would help me. If I needed it.”

“Yeah.”

As the Uber pulls up, Brian gives Pat a sideways look. They don’t talk much on the ride; Brian’s breathing is all over the place, and Pat can’t help brooding. Upon reflection, it makes sense. Brian is young, and so damn pretty. Some old asshole with a sloppy beard and a rough glare coud muscle him home when he’s stumbling and glassy-eyed. There’s no chance he’d go for it sober. This is a thing that could happen. A thing that happens all the time.

_The kind of thing that happens to people like me…_

Brian sends a text, quietly; it takes him a few minutes to compose and Pat wonders if it’s to her. Probably. He imagines her, all of 4’10” and 23 and already _fierce_ , nodding at the screen, pocketing it, satisfied. Brian is safe. For tonight. A good deed done in a hideous world.

  
  
  
  


 

The alcohol really hits Brian hard. He’s flushed and sweating, and spends most of the ride closing his eyes and looking ill. Pat gets him up to his apartment carefully, steadying his arm when he sways. 

He drops the kid off on the couch, but Brian pulls his arm as he gets up for blankets. 

“Don’t go to bed yet, please.” Brian pleads, face open. “Can you just sit with me for a minute.” 

“Sure,” Pat says, and drops down. It’s nice, being next to the kid, legs touching. He feels less keyed up than he did in the bar, or in the taxi. Calm enough to try and make up for being an ass. “Sorry for being pushy. And never helping, with shit like this.”

“You help,” Brian says. He’s pressing his shoulder into Pat’s, clearly looking for comfort. He hitches his knees up, actually, wraps his arms around them. “I’m sorry I didn’t do what I’m supposed to.” 

“What?”

“Tell the cops and all. I know you’re supposed to like. Report subway creeps. It’s better for everyone that way. I just—I never know where the line is. What’s useful. And what’s just wasting people’s time.” 

Pat dares to wrap an arm around the shoulders next to him. “You’re not wasting people’s time, Bri. That fucker _assaulted_ you.” 

“Yeah but like. Did he?” Brian sighs, and Pat feels himself gripping the shoulder tight. He forces himself to loosen up. “No, listen. Yeah, he kissed me. It was, um. A little forward. But for all I know he thought I was flirting.” 

Pat can’t get his tone to calm down. “It is illegal to put your hands on someone who doesn’t want it, Brian. Or your mouth. It’s very fucking illegal.” 

Brian waves a hand, drunkenly. “Eh. It’s not _that_ illegal.”  

“Please, Brian,” Pat says plaintively. He doesn’t know what to do, but he knows that Brian shouldn’t think this is his fault. “If someone walked up to me and did that, I’d flip out. It wouldn’t be okay.” 

“It’s not okay,” Brian smiles faintly. “But like, it’s not something you tell the cops every time. Every kiss, every catcall, every grope, every time someone shoves you or spits on you or calls you a fag. You ever _actually_ reported something like that, before?” 

“No,” Pat admits. He hasn’t really dealt with casual, public terror since he was in school.

“I have,” Brian says firmly. “And honestly they just don’t wanna hear it. If you don’t need a rape kit you’re probably not worth their time. Even if you do, you’re probably not. It’s not practical.”

Pat feels sick. “So you just have to eat it. When this shit happens to you.” 

“Comes with the territory,” Brian flips his hair. “I suck it up. I don’t fade into the background. Painted nails. Flowery shirts. Jewelry. Shorts.” 

“You’re not _asking for it,”_ Pat growls. 

“No, no. I just mean. If I had tits it’d be worse. I’m not gonna figure out how to dress so people don’t want to fuck with me. I’d rather take the hassle. Fuck it. I just want to live. I’ll take my lumps.” 

Pat uncurls one of the hands from Brian’s knee. He just wants to hold it. To look at it, for a second. To look at the sparkly nail polish and think about how the kid puts it on every couple weeks, balances the bottle and picks out some color he likes, and has to weigh how much abuse it’s worth. Pat wonders if he’d wear the shoes he likes, or the skinny jeans, if he thought it’d get him attention like that. Would he cut his hair, if keeping it long meant people might have half a mind to pull it. Or call him a faggot. If he’d dress how he does if he still lived in Texas. 

“I hate this fucking world,” Pat sighs, rubs the nailbeds with his fingers. “You’re a brave fucker.”

“Nah. Ninety percent of the time, it’s super boring.” Brian gives a lopsided grin. “It was way worse in Baltimore. And when I was younger. It didn’t even matter what I wore, then. I just had the _look_.” 

“What’s that mean.” 

“Ask Simone,” Brian says. “Ask when she got her subway face right. For a while your face is just like—” he makes an open, sweet, smiling expression “—and you make eye contact and smile like you just walked out of Gary, Indiana or something.” 

“I don’t think I ever smiled at people.” 

Brian snorts. “Yeah, cause you’re like, a _dude_ dude. Straight men don’t smile. I was a cheery little gay kid. But I learned, eventually. You need a public transit bitch face. Bored. Kinda angry. Definitely busy. You gotta always look like you gotta be somewhere, and you’re late, and by the way someone is meeting you there and they’re _definitely_ going to notice if you don’t show up. That’s the energy you should have.” 

Pat sighs. “I don’t think a lot about my energy.” 

“My big sister taught me. After the first few times. She also taught me to always wear headphones, even if they’re off. And to sit in the front of the bus, near the driver. And that sometimes, no matter what you do, even if you have your bitch face and you’re in sweatpants and you’re just like standing in Michaels like a weird slob, sometimes some creepy guy grabs your ass and there’s nothing you could have done different.” 

“Some guy groped you in a _Michaels_? For fuck’s sake.” 

“Right?” Brian laughs. “I just was a cute little teen who wanted to craft! Let me craft, cruel world.” 

“It’s fuckin’ sick.” 

Brian shrugs. “I’ll live. Sometimes you have to touch a gross tongue but you get over it.” 

It turns Pat’s stomach, the airy way which he talks about it. How people help themselves to Brian’s body like he’s something they are owed. 

His own fingers feel a little repulsive, then, resting around Brian’s shoulders. God, maybe they’re not— 

“Tell me if I’m touching you too much,” Pat says suddenly, because he can’t bear the thought that Brian is enduring this hug the way that he’s endured apparently five hundred other shitty things before this point. 

“Patrick,” Brian slurs a bit, and nuzzles into his chest. “You know I—‘m touchy-feely—I like it.”

“Good,” Pat hears himself saying, which is a weird thing to say, and his throat chokes with the urge to apologize for it, but the kid’s already asleep. 

His permission granted, Pat lets his arm rest around Brian’s shoulders for…a long time. 

  
  
  
  


#  **4.**

 

Pat just happens to be near the front desk at the right moment. 

A buzz at the door. Through the glass, he can see a cop, and he tenses a bit—not afraid, not exactly, but it’s never a _good omen_ , when a cop shows up at your front door. Pat is closest, so he lets the guy in. 

“Can I help you, officer?” 

“Yes. I’m looking for a Brian Gilbert.”

Pat raises his eyebrows. “He works here, yes. Although he’s in a meeting, I think he could spare a minute. What should I tell him, when I ask?” 

“Thanks,” the cop says. He’s got a warm face, nice enough, mustache and dark-olive skin that’s a little weathered. “This’ll only take a second. Just need him to ID some stolen property.”

It’s hard not to vocalize his sigh of relief, but Pat manages it. He ducks into the office, finds Brian’s desk. He’s not in a meeting. He’s working on a review, earphones on, typing, pausing, deleting, typing again. Pat waits for a moment, watching. 

“Hey,” he says softly, and though he tries not to interrupt, Brian does jump. “Um. There’s someone at the front for you.” 

“Oh?” Brian says, and he’s already getting up, untangling himself from cords. “Okay, I’ll—”

“It’s a cop,” says Pat, because he would want to know that, if it were him. Brian’s face tightens, like when an improv scene starts to go tits-up, but he doesn’t lose his composure. 

“Uh, they say what they wanted?”

“Something about stolen property.”

“Oh,” Brian nods, relaxes. “Of course. Okay. I’m—I’m coming.”

They walk back together, shoulders bumping companionably. Brian tends to walk close, when he’s not paying much attention. If he’s lost in thought. 

If he’s anxious, though, his voice doesn’t show it. “Hello sir. You’re looking for me?”

“You’re Brian Gilbert, correct? That reported an incident involving stolen property in January.” 

“Correct. Um, mid-January or so, I think? My, um wallet. ID. Phone. A little cash. That’s all.”

“Is this your property? It was recovered, along with others. Looked like someone dumped a pile recently.”

Brian reaches out his hand and takes the wallet. It’s brown leather, scuffed, and looks empty. “Yeah…yeah. That’s definitely mine. Got my business card in it, even.”

“Cash and credit cards cleaned out,” the officer nods. “And driver’s license, too. But the positive identification will help us out a little. I’m sure you’re busy, but if you’d be willing to drop down to the precinct and update your statement, we might be able to find the mugger more easily.”

“Sure,” Brian agrees. “I’ll come by later. Thanks very much.”

“Have a nice day,” the guy waves, letting himself out. Brian reflexively goes to put the wallet in his pocket, finds his new wallet there, and hitches. 

“I didn’t know you got mugged, Brian.” Pat says, quietly. 

The kid dips his chin, as if he’s _embarrassed_. “I didn’t talk about it around the office. It wasn’t, um, a big deal.” 

“ _Fuck_ , Brian,” Pat struggles to keep his voice quiet, because this is not a conversation that should be loud. “It’s a big deal, okay. What happened?” 

“It’s really…” Brian shakes himself a little and looks up, presses his face into an easy expression. “Well, you heard. A coupla subway stations were closed, so I had to walk a little farther than usual. Guy took my phone and my wallet off me. That’s all.”

“Did the guy have a _gun_ , Brian?” Pat doesn’t know why he’s pressing, other than his vague sense of panic that such a thing could happen and he wouldn’t even _know_ about it. “Did he fucking _hurt_ you?” 

“Yes, and um, no.” He looks nearly sick at the memory, and that makes sense, but it also makes Pat _angry_ , because how could he keep this hidden, all this time, as if it’s _no big problem._

“Did you talk to fucking _anyone_ about it?”

“My sister. Kind of.” Brian lets out a huff of breath. “I can’t talk about it. Here.”

Pat nods. “Okay. Wanna talk about it…later? We can go out for drinks. Tonight, if you’re free.”

“Um,” Brian says carefully, “actually—instead…no, maybe it’s too weird.”

“I’ll do it,” Pat says instinctively, and Brian gives a little smile. “Just ask.”

“Would you come with me to update my statement?” Brian asks shyly. He’s looking, not at Pat, but at his electric-blue nails, which are chewed down in places to nubs. “The precinct kinda—flipped me out last time. My neighborhood’s a little rough.” 

“Of course,” says Pat.

  
  
  


That evening, they go in and wait on ugly-tan-cream plastic chairs to see the secretary. There are two seats open together, and Pat positions himself on the right, sitting next to a scruffy guy who looks like he’s contemplating trying to get away with smoking inside. 

Brian sits, wringing his hands in acute anxiety. The woman he’s sandwiched next to raises her eyebrows. 

“Whatchoo doin’ here, honey,” she asks in a curious tone. “Undercover cop pick you up?”

Brian shoves a hand on Pat’s knee and squeezes _hard_ , and Pat doesn’t understand why he’s being stilled. “No, ma’am.” 

“Eh, shoulda known. You look too smart to fall for the wrong john,” she turns away, disinterested, and Pat chokes on his own saliva. 

“ _Chill_ ,” Brian mouths at him. 

Blessedly, a cop calls them soon, seats them in a cubicle, asks, “So, you wanted to report a crime? Theft?”

“N-not exactly.” Brian stutters, but he smooths through it quickly. “Um. Um. An officer returned some stolen property to me today. Said I should update the statement with my local precinct. Just in case.”

“Mmmm,” the cop jots this down, looking tired and like he’s running at the end of a long shift. 

“I know it’s probably not, uh. Not worth wasting your time,” Brian says quietly. 

The cop glances up, and softens his tone a bit. “It’s my job, kid. What’s the date and nature of the incident you reported?”

“January. Um, maybe around the 13th? I got mugged, uh, walking back home.” 

“Let me pull the file real quick,” 

While he does so, Brian fidgets and murmurs. “I don’t know why they even need me to update this,” he says to his fingers. “I told a cop what happened. He wrote it down. I figured that’d be the end of it.” 

Pat tries to sound calm. He knows he’s supposed to be here, like, helping. “Maybe they found some evidence? Linked it to something you said?”

Brian snorts. “I don’t think so.”

It’s weird, to hear that dark, sardonic tone come out of Brian’s mouth. It’s out of place, pessimism, in his voice. 

Then the cop’s back, and rifling through the file. “Found it. Short statement, here. Can I read the notes to you, and you can verify it’s correct?” 

“Sure.” 

_“Suspect around six foot. No visual description. Voice hoarse, only said a few words. Wearing hooded jacket, jeans. Allegedly armed, victim did not see gun. Suspect asked “Which pocket is your wallet in?”, retrieved wallet, had victim lie down, patted him down for valuables, fled.”_

“That’s, uh, approximately right. But, um.” He gives Pat a sideways glance.

“Yes?” the cop prompted. 

“I didn’t see the gun but I, um. Felt it. If that matters.” 

“He was behind you?” 

“Yeah. He um. Pressed it to my neck. So I’m pretty sure it was there.” 

Pat swears. Brian jumps. The cop raises his eyebrows. “They should have put that in here. Sorry about that.” 

“It’s fine,” says Brian, who’s wringing his hands again. He’s looking at his hands too, which is good, because it means he’s not looking at Pat who is _losing his shit._ “It, um. I didn’t probably say everything clearly. And it didn’t matter much. I mean. I didn’t lose anything, not really.”

“Any other mistakes in here, son?” 

Brian closes his eyes and exhales.

The cop’s face has changed. He was tired, before—but now his eyes, despite their dark circles, look _awake_.

The stare makes Pat jumpy. Brian’s silence isn’t helping. He’s whipcord tense and still processing the idea of a _fucking gun_ pressed against Brian’s neck, the small of his neck, where the downy little blonde hairs are that Pat has definitely never noticed. 

“You’re not going to like this, Pat.” 

Pat doesn’t say anything, because it would be a tell.

“Your friend can handle it,” says the cop with a wave. “He’s here to help you out. Make sure we get all the details we need to try and run this thing down. He’ll even step out if you need him to, right, Pat?”

Pat is halfway through saying _of course_ but Brian’s already saying “Nonono no. No it’s fine. Just um. A little thing. I think the statement says he patted me down for valuables.” 

“Yep. That’s what’s written here.” 

“I. Um. I don’t think he was looking for valuables, exactly.” 

Pat feels his heartbeat in his fingertips, which he eventually realizes means that he is gripping the seat of his chair _very hard._

“Yeah that doesn’t ring true,” the cop agrees. “They know what you have—wallet, phone—they take it off you.”

Brian hesitates. 

The cop gently prods. “So he did touch you, besides taking the wallet?”

“Yeah.” It takes everything Pat has not to flinch visibly at that sighed little sound. “Yeah. Just for a minute.” 

“Can I ask you a couple questions about it?”

“Um. I don’t—it’s not useful—um—”

“It’ll help me a bit if we can add some details to the statement. I just want to ask you a few things, and I’ll tell you exactly why I’m asking them, because it sounds like whoever took your statement didn’t do a great job.” 

“Sure.” Brian’s eyes really are closed now and he’s just talking without opening them. 

“Did he touch you in a way that was overtly sexual? That would add some different classifications to the report, is why I ask.”

“Yeah, um. Yeah. I would say so.”

“In particular, did he touch your groin, buttocks, or mouth, in particular?”

“Um. Yes. Groin and…mouth.” 

Pat makes a sound, a strangled one, and the cop _glares_ at him. _Hush_ , his glare says. 

“Okay. Thank you. I’ll file it with that in mind. Can I ask you to walk me through exactly what happened? If you feel comfortable. It might help us establish an M.O. for the perpetrator and be more likely to connect them to other, similar cases.”

“Yes,” says Brian, tonelessly. “I can do that.”

Pat feels like he is sweating right through his shirt, but he doesn’t want to move, because Brian has found his hand without looking and is clenching it hard. 

“So you were walking home. And he approached you. From behind?”

“Yeah,” Brian sighs. “Yeah. He was walking faster than me. Behind me. I figured he would just pass by, but. Um. He caught up to me and said something. I don’t remember what. Something casual. I turned to look at him but he uh. Stepped right behind me and. Pushed it in to me.”

“The gun?”

“Yeah. Into my neck. He said something like _you know what this is, kid?_ and I said something stupid. And he, um. Clicked it? I think it’s like. Um. The sound of clicking a safety off? I don’t know much about guns.” 

“You’re doing fine. So he put the gun against your neck. What did he do next?”

“He um. Asked which pocket my wallet was in. I said the right front. He grabbed in there—” 

“Was the gun in his left hand originally,” the cop breaks in, “or did he have to switch hands to reach in?”

Brian thinks for a moment. “I think it was um. In his left hand originally. I don’t think he switched.”

“Okay. That’s helpful. I’m glad you remembered that. Go on.”

“Yeah so he um. Took my wallet. I think he probably stuffed it in his pocket? He had a hoodie. I don’t know what color. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“He um. Asked me something about it. He said, like, _you got any cash in here, babe?_ Something like that.”

“Uh-huh. And did you respond?”

“Yeah um. I said not really, I think. Something like that. I don’t carry a lot of cash.”

“Was he unhappy with that?”

“I don’t know. He um. Asked me um. If I didn’t have any cash. How I was gonna make it up to him.”

“Was that when he touched your mouth?”

“No. Um. Not yet. He uh. Told me to put my hands on my head and I did that. Then he felt me up for a few seconds.”

“Your groin?” 

“Yeah. He unbuckled my pants but uh. He didn’t mess with that for very long. Maybe a couple minutes.” 

Pat hisses out his breath so slowly that it makes no sound. He keeps breathing out, all the air in his lungs, out out out, then holds it there until his chest hurts and his vision starts to swim. It doesn’t help.

“And then?”

“He told me to get on my knees. So I did that. Um. And he stuck his fingers in my mouth.”

“He did,” says the cop. He makes a note. His tone is calm, as if Brian were talking about how to tie his shoes. “And then?”

Brian stops. Pat feels like he will never breathe again. 

“He came around to—um.”

“To the front. That’s when you got a look at him?”

“Y-yeah. I, um. His jacket and stuff. But I, um. Closed my eyes. So I didn’t, um. See his face.” Brian sounds genuinely sorry about this, as if he’s fucked up the cop’s day, and Pat feels a strange lurch that he realizes is the feeling of starting to cry. “Sorry. That’s probably—I should have—”

“It’s fine, son. You did great. You were smart. Got out of there alive. I think both me and your friend here are pretty glad you did whatever you had to, to make sure we didn’t have a body on our hands right now.”

“Yeah,” Pat says roughly. He’s grateful that Brian isn’t looking at him, but the cop is, and he’s sure that the tears are visible. The look isn’t judgmental, though. Just—acknowledging. A little bit fatherly, even. He’s good at this job, and he’s going to push more, now. To find out everything.  

“Where was the gun, when he was in front of you?” 

“I think, um, his left hand. He di—” Brian’s voice broke and his whole body hitches, makes a nauseated sound. 

“What happened next, son?” 

Brian nods at that. Pat can’t see him, but he can tell he’s still closing his eyes. Steeling himself. Planning to get it all out and be done with it, even if he vomits. Drawing the last shreds of humor into himself to make one last swing for the fences. “He didn’t make me suck his dick. I mean. He was _definitely_ going to. But there were some sounds nearby. Like, uh, people walking together.” 

“So he stopped?”

“Yeah he uh. Asked me to lie down on the ground and said I could get up after I counted to a hundred. And so I just did that. I might have counted to more than a hundred, to be honest.” 

“Good, son,” the cop says again. “You did good. That’s all helpful. And now, let’s go over the wallet—what is still missing—”

The two slowly go through it, but Pat doesn’t pay attention much as they list cards. He sees Brian in his mind’s eye. Shaking, on his knees, with his hands on his head. Vivid details fill in--he can see Brian’s yellow jeans, fly open, getting dirty on the asphalt--Brian’s face staring off into the darkness, contorted with tense, active fear—the dirty fingers snaking around his face and shoving into Brian’s mouth, making him gag as much from fear as anything else—the guy shifting around him and Brian screwing his eyes closed— 

“I think that’s all we need, here,” the cop’s voice breaks in. “Just, let’s have you sign this updated statement and then we’ll give you a call if we make any progress on the case.” He stands, rests an arm on Brian’s shoulder. “You need anything? Water? Restroom?”

Brian half-stands. “Uh, yeah, bathroom would be great.”

“Just there in the hall,” the cop gestures. “I’ll file this and give the receipt to you on the way out.”

When Brian disappears, Pat discreetly wipes his eyes. He’s grateful, for the moment to collect himself. The cop isn’t filing anything, is just staring at him, thoughtfully. “You all right, son?”

“Yeah,” says Pat. “I--um. Thanks. I really appreciate how you, uh, talked to him without freaking him out. You’re definitely good at it.”

“It’s my job,” the cop dismisses the compliment. “You’ve got the hard work. I just have to get the story. And figure out what damn fool didn’t get it the first time.”

Although he doesn’t know what to say to that, Pat appreciates it, and lets the cop go on. 

“We’re probably not going to find anything on this guy, to be honest. Other wallets haven’t turned up much yet. But if we _do_ nab him the statement will help. Hopefully force a confession. Then we get our mugger and your friend doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Pat nods. “Right.”

“You guys roommates, or—?” Pat gives him a weird look, but the cop shrugs. “Not trying to pry, son. Just wondering if he’s headed home alone tonight.”

“No,” Pat says quickly. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Good. Just let him know you’re there. He’s a tough kid, he’ll be fine. He’s been fine since January, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Pat. “Yeah, he has.”

Brian emerges from the bathroom—it’s been a minute, but he looks fine. Normal. The cop hands him a slip of paper and wishes him a good evening, tells him to stay safe. They head out, together, into the night. 

 

 

 

 

#  **5.**

 

“Um, would you be up for drinks, tonight?” Brian’s voice is shy, barely audible as they futz with the microphones, putting the cords back into place.

“Who’s going? Because I can’t go toe-to-toe with Tara anymore, I’m getting old.”

“Just us. I mean, if you want.” Brian says softly, and Pat’s heart lurches. 

“Sure. Of course. Um, did--did something happen, or—?” 

“No,” Brian says quickly. “Really. Nothing. I just wanna go out with you. Unless you don’t…”

“Of course I do,” says Pat, relieved but also—oddly tense, in a different way. “Let’s do it. Now, hold this while I check these levels…” 

  
  
  
  
  


The bar is full—boisterously loud, and crowded—and they are shouting at each other and laughing and drinking mules and jotting down video ideas on a napkin that will definitely get lost before they can use it. 

“If we play Wolfenstein I’m just going to lose again,” Brian whines. “And I’m ticklish. And the chat makes fun of me when I giggle.” 

“Get better at video games then,” Pat grins. “Or get used to being mocked.”

Brian rolls his eyes in defeat. It’s good to see Brian getting fun drunk, Pat thinks, and not fighting back tears. But something in his face—it still feels like he’s steeling himself to say something. The way his eyes dart to and from Pat’s face, alighting, looking for a good moment, and then…giving up. 

Pat is drunk, and they’ve done this so many times before, so he lets his thoughts be more easy than he ever thought he would. “Brian—honest question. Why’d you really ask me out tonight?”

Brian blushes from head to toe. 

“And don’t get me wrong, I’m havin’ a good time. Just wanted to check and make sure somethin’s not wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Pat,” Brian says again, and his voice has fallen into that shy little whisper that sometimes makes a finger curl in Pat’s guts, especially when he drops his gaze like that and peeks up, timidly, through his eyelashes. Fuck, he is _delicious_ and it kills Pat that the world could ever hurt this boy. 

“Bullshit,” Pat says roughly, because sometimes being a bit brusque works on Brian. “You wanna talk about something. I know it. Some shit happen today? On the subway? At work? ”

“Nothing happened today,” Brian turns away but moves closer at the same time, bringing their shoulders into contact. Fuck. Pat blinks to himself, tries to sober up. Maybe the good mood is a front. Maybe it’s bad, if Brian can’t look at him, if Brian needs the comfort of contact without seeing Pat’s face. 

“Okay, so not today. Was it yesterday? Look, dude, whatever it is you can tell me.”

“I know,” Brian says, after a beat, and just quietly deflects. “There’s nothing to tell. Nothing bad happened.” 

Before he knows what he’s doing, Pat puts his glass down, seizes Brian’s shoulders—not hard, but firmly—turns Brian around to face him. 

“Stop saying it’s nothing,” Pat says into Brian’s downturned face. “You trust me, right? We talk about anything that happens to you. I’m not gonna flip out. I might want to burn this city to the ground, but that’s pretty much normal.”

Brian speaks to his shoes. “It’s not—what you’re thinking—”

“How do you know?” Pat can feel the tension in Brian’s shoulders, the anxiety, the indecision. He can’t know how big and bad this thing is going to be until he sees Brian’s expression; until the face looks up at him open and sad and tells him what is going on. As he thinks that, his hand on impulse grabs Brian’s chin, gently tips it up, and he finds himself examining Brian’s face. The expression is closed, attentive, pupils wide and intent, as if willing Pat to read his mind, to figure it out, to _help_ him for once. 

It’s an intimate gesture, especially when Brian neither says anything nor moves away. Pat is struck with sudden anxiety. This can’t be the right way to get Brian to confide in him. 

“Sorry—” he pulls away, at the same time that Brian said “Wait.”

He stops. “Don’t let go, Pat Gill.” 

“Um, okay.” 

Brian just stands, staring up at him, eyes swirling with some emotion, still under Pat’s hands. “You’re right. I did have a reason I dragged you out tonight.” 

“Tell me,” Pat says gently, ignoring Brian’s lips, his hair, his throat, and thinking only about his eyes. _I can do this,_ he thinks. _Focus, you fucker. No matter what he says. Stay calm. Be a halfway decent friend, for once._

“I wanted to ask you to. Uh. Kiss me.”

Pat’s brain fizzles. He just stares. 

Brian licks his lips nervously. “Um. Unle—”

The words are cut off as Pat’s lips crush into his. It’s quick and hot and wet and Pat lets himself float in the feelings without wondering about the whys and wherefores. Even if—if it’s only—it just is—and that’s good.

“Oh good,” Brian pants, when Pat comes up for air. He looks pink and a bit debauched already, pupils wide, lips red, hair askew in the way it kind of always is. His chin is still tipped up in Pat’s hand and he’s made no move to step away. “I hoped you’d say yes.”

“What am I saying yes to,” Pat says, in a sort of strangled voice. If he’s going to need to stop, to go backwards, he needs to know now. 

“Letting me sleep at your place again?” Brian bats his eyelids. 

“Yes,” says Pat, and catches with his teeth that willing mouth.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [touched for the very first time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416023) by [pleasert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasert/pseuds/pleasert)




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